A Tap on the Window

Fifty-seven

He’s driving so quickly, when he has to make a turn from a gravel road to pavement, the truck skitters on its back wheels, nearly flips over. But he wrenches the wheel, manages to right the vehicle, and once he hits blacktop he floors it.

Now, driving in a straight line, he can manage the phone. He grabs it with his right, places a call, puts the phone to his ear.

“Hello?” his mother says urgently.

“It’s me,” he says.

“What’s happened, Richard? Did you find them?”

“I found them,” Ricky Haines says.

“And?”

“I got them.”

“You did?”

“I got Mullavey. And I’m pretty sure I got the girl, too.”

“Pretty sure?” Phyllis Pearce likes to deal in absolutes. “What do you mean, pretty sure?”

“I saw her go down. I couldn’t exactly check her pulse, with Weaver shooting at me.”

“What about him? What did you do with him?”

“I told you. He was shooting at me. I had to get out of there. I couldn’t get a good shot at him.”

“What about the notebook?”

“I don’t have it.”

“God, you’re hopeless! Where are you now?”

“On the road. I’m coming home.”

“No!” she says. “You have to go back! You have to finish this!”

“No, listen. I waited, a little while, at the end of the road, the only way out, figuring Weaver’d drive out eventually. I hid the truck and I was in the woods. When they didn’t show up, I drove back past the place, saw that the boat was gone. Decided then I better get out of there.”

“Boat? What are you talking about, a boat?”

“I followed them to a cottage on Cayuga Lake. Weaver must have took off in a boat.”

“Did he see you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. And I don’t know what Mullavey and the girl told him before I got there.”

“My God, what a mess,” Phyllis says.

“It’s not that bad, Mom. The only one left who might know anything is Weaver.”

“And he’s probably got the book, too.” She can’t hold back any longer: “You should have gotten Mullavey that first day! That’s what you should have done!”

Ricky thinks she’s losing it. But he knows his mom. He knows she freaks out at first, but then she calms down, thinks things through. Mom usually has a plan. When he hears nothing from her for several seconds, he’s pretty sure that’s what is going on.

“I know all that,” he says. “I know I’ve made some mistakes. But some things I got right, you know that.”

“Shut up,” Phyllis says. “Just shut up and let me think.”

He waits. He feels tears coming on, blinks a few times to clear his vision. He thinks of all the things that could have been done better, the different decisions that could have been made. And not just by him. She deserves plenty of the blame, too, but she gets so angry when he reminds her of that.

Finally she says, “You come home. I’ll see what I can do.”

Ricky tosses the phone onto the seat next to him. He’s not relieved, but he feels slightly better.

Mom will figure something out.